Heart of Silver and Gold
by one hundred zeros
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had always believed he has no heart, believed it until he met John Watson, brilliant and selfless beneath his ordinary appearance. He makes Sherlock think of things he must not have, things like friendship and love and forever. So when Moriarty offers him an unusual arrangement, Sherlock accepts, never knowing the truth about his forgotten heart. Steampunk AU


_first hour: ab aeterno (where my forgotten heart still lies)_

London. John Watson had not walked the streets of London for a very long time. He did catch glimpses of the sprawling city from the air, of course, through the clouds and rain and snow, but had never in a long time stood at the center of it all and heard the sounds of life around him.

It was different from what he remembered in an almost confusing way. There did not use to be so many people, so many towers with their spires reaching into the sky, everything glittering gold and silver in the sunlight. Laughter swirled in eddies up and down the street, and for a moment John felt strangely detached from it all.

Looking down at the piece of paper in his hand, John made sure that he had indeed gotten the address right. The establishment was a small coffee shop, elegantly quaint and reminiscent of the olden days, just something Mike Stamford, history professor and enthusiast of all things archaic, would take a liking to.

Pushing open the door, a little chime of old gears and metal parts rang contentedly as he made his way inside, eyes scanning the tables for the familiar figure of his friend. It did not take long and John found Mike Stamford within moments, seated in a corner table next to someone who appeared absorbed in observing the rate at which his coffee was filtering into a decanter.

'Ah, John!' Mike greeted eagerly, standing up to shake his hand.

'Hello Mike.' John smiled, more pleased than he knew to be seeing his friend again.

'I was just telling Sherlock here how incredibly punctual you are to any rendezvous,' Mike continued, sounding almost like a proud parent and gesturing to the person he had been sitting with.

The man called Sherlock did not even look up to acknowledge the introduction. 'He is exactly one minute and 6.72 seconds late,' he said blandly to his decanter and Mike had an expression which was not quite a wince.

'You must forgive him, John,' he said apologetically. 'Sherlock does get like this sometimes - well, actually all the time.'

'It is quite alright,' John nodded, turning to regard this seemingly impolite stranger with a barely concealed curiosity.

In the golden afternoon sunlight, he looked almost unreal with his black curls and pale skin, his dark head bowed over the experiment (or so John gathered) in deep concentration, hands resting steadily against the glass of the decanter. He was all sharp angles and precise movement, from the folds in his stark white shirt down to the way his feet were crossed at the ankles beneath his chair.

'What do you think?'

Too absorbed in his observations, it took John a few moments to realize that Sherlock had asked him a question.

'I beg your pardon?' The other man still had not so much as glanced up.

Sherlock gave a short laugh, before finally turning to look at him, and in that moment, John felt as though he had forgotten how to breathe. It was like flying for the first time, when the lines of the world cleared and you could suddenly see the curve of the roads and the labyrinth of the streets without a way out, except that this was so very much better. Those green-blue eyes made John think of the sea the one time he had seen it, glittering in the light, beautiful and unfathomable. They made him think of freedom and the sky in the rain, so much so that it almost hurt to look.

He felt distinctly then that he wanted to stay with Sherlock forever and did not quite understand why. Such sentiment was unlike him and, he had thought, beyondhim.

'I said - what do you think?' Sherlock repeated, mouth tilting upwards in what could have been a smile.

'What of?' John managed, a little confused, but mostly fascinated.

'Me,' Sherlock answered simply. 'You have been observing my person for no less than five minutes since I made your acquaintance, more than ample time to draw some conclusions.'

John was not quite sure what conclusions Sherlock expected him to draw, not to mention they had not actually made each other's acquaintance like the other so claimed. A comment about his punctuality, or lack thereof, could hardly be considered an introduction.

'You are...' he searched around for a word. 'Different.'

There was a brief flicker of surprise in Sherlock's expression which was gone as soon as it had appeared. 'A perfectly sound conclusion,' he acquiesced.

Mike chuckled. 'You have no idea, John,' he said. 'Sherlock here has the ability to know everything about anyone's history from just a glance.'

'Everything?' John repeated, not entirely sure if he was understanding Mike right.

'Indeed. He could tell you what you had for breakfast, where you were born, your work, your family - whatever he wants to know.'

'Not quite,' Sherlock corrected. 'I don't _know, _I observe, which is more than can be said for some people.'

'You observe things about others?' John could not keep himself from asking.

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed. 'For example,' he continued, turning his attention to John, cerulean eyes looking him up and down unblinkingly and John tried his best not to shift. 'I observe that you have only just recently returned to London although you were born here. Why? Because for the last few years, your work made it necessary for you to stay on an airship. You are a doctor of sorts, but your talents do extend quite a bit further. An unfortunate incident a month or so back has sent you back, although 'home' is not an altogether precise term because you are currently still looking for a place to stay. Which is also why Mike has so insistently brought me to this meeting because he wishes that I would offer to share lodgings with you, a concept which he obviously does not quite realize is rather foreign to me.'

This was all concluded with a reproachful look in Mike Stamford's direction, and the history professor smiled sheepishly.

'It was worth a try,' he reasoned, but Sherlock was not listening and neither was John.

'Fantastic,' he breathed. 'That was fantastic.'

Sherlock looked rather taken aback, his expression somehow unsure as though he was not quite certain how he should respond to the praise.

'You think so?' he said, trying to keep the pride from his voice.

'Of course,' John replied. 'Even Mike did not know about some of the things you mentioned.'

'Thank you.' Sherlock knew that his tone was polite, but he thought that he might actually be a little flattered. John Watson was a very interesting person, and he thought that he might not mind so much if they lived together. It would help to keep him from being bored for a while at least, besides, it was nice to have someone who was appreciative of his talent around.

'Well,' Mike said, sensing that the introductions were over. 'Have a seat, John. Would you like some coffee?'

'Tea, please.'

'Coffee,' Sherlock said, attention returning to his experiment.

'You already have your coffee.' Mike sounded only a little exasperated.

'The coffee was for you, Mike. Some cream and excess sugar would therefore also be required, no doubt.' Sherlock smiled his little half-smile again, and John found that he could not look away. 'As it is, I will be leaving now - Lestrade requires my assistance on a case.'

'Lestrade again?'

'You know how it is. The Force is most incompetent, a wonder they have not yet fallen apart from internal conflict.'

'But John has only just come!' Mike protested.

'Yes, and he shall be leaving with me,' Sherlock announced to the surprise of everyone present except himself.

John blinked. 'Me?'

Sherlock sighed, sounding impatient. 'Of course I was referring to you. A history professor would not be much help at a scene of murder.'

'Murder?' John was alarmed now. Where exactly was Sherlock going and what was he trying to get John involved in?

'I assist the Metropolitan Police Force on some of their particularly interesting criminal cases,' Sherlock explained tersely. 'And now there has been a murder - you are a doctor, Anderson on the Force refuses to work with me, so your professional knowledge would be most helpful if you so wish to assist. Is that quite clear enough for you?'

'Yes,' John acquiesced before he had quite thought through his reply.

'Then we should hurry,' Sherlock said, already making his way to the door without so much as a look back to make sure that John was following.

Hastily bidding Mike their farewells and apologizing for not being able to stay any longer ('It is quite alright, we can always catch up another time,' Mike had smiled in an understanding manner), John made his way out of the little coffee shop into the vibrant colors and bustle of the street. Sherlock was waiting next to a hansom cab and jumped in the moment John appeared.

'Kingsland Road,' Sherlock told the driver, 'anywhere near Haggerston Station would do, but be quick.'

They were flying down the street within moments, and John had little time to wonder that they were heading to the opposite side of the city. Sherlock was looking out the window in what appeared to be quiet contemplation and no doubt did not wish to be disturbed. Settling back into his seat, John contented himself with watching the scenery passing by, taking in all the new sights and sounds of a London which had changed much from what he remembered.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence first. 'You have questions,' he said. It was a statement.

John started, surprised. 'Yes,' he conceded, wondering where to begin and decided to start with the easy ones. 'Where are we going now?'

'The scene of the murder - it is near the outskirts of the city,' Sherlock replied. 'This one is only the latest in a series of deaths and unless we find the killer soon, it will very likely not be the last.'

He smiled a little, and John thought that the other almost looked a little pleased about it.

'So you decided to get involved?' he asked.

'No,' Sherlock said, sounding almost offended. 'The Force asked for my help because they were, as usual, too inept to make the conclusions necessary to progress with the case.' His tone was supercilious, and thinking back to the earlier demonstration of his abilities, John realized that Sherlock was likely to view the greater majority humans as dull and mundane.

'I see.'

Sherlock was still looking out the window as though whatever he saw outside fascinated him. 'Is that all?' he asked in a way which clearly suggested that he knew it was definitely _not _all.

John hesitated. 'Your deductions earlier. How...?' The question was not finished, but he could tell from the way Sherlock gave his not-quite smile again that it was understood all the same.

'Obvious, really,' Sherlock said in what may or may not have been an attempt at modesty. 'I have known Mike Stamford for years, but only now does he suddenly suggest a meeting with you, his old friend. It could only mean that you have not been in London for some time - years, in fact, and have only just returned. The calluses on your palm clearly show that your work involves your hands. A writer perhaps? No, the marks are at the wrong places. A doctor then. You are right-handed but the way you hold your left hand against your side is more suggestive of an injury of some sort, the one which sent you back here to London. That I mentioned to Mike just this morning that I am searching for a new place to rent since my current rooms are much too large for one person and he insists upon our meeting this very afternoon can only mean that he has decided of his own accord that I should offer to share my place with you.'

He finished with an expectant look in John's direction.

'That was...' John cast his mind around for a suitable descriptor. 'Amazing.'

This made Sherlock smile. 'All very apparent if one only knows where to look,' he said, turning to stare out the window again.

There was a pause, during which Sherlock sensed that the doctor was perhaps not quite finished.

'Although,' John began. 'What did you mean by 'doctor of sorts'?'

He thought as much. 'Am I wrong?' Sherlock asked but did not elaborate.

John blinked, carefully allowing for nothing but confusion surface in his expression. How much had Sherlock noticed? He leaned back, and to the casual observer it would have looked as though he had been trying to find a proper answer to the question and finally gave up with a sigh, sinking back into his seat. But Sherlock was never the casual observer, John knew as much and he also knew that he had to be more guarded from now on, there was no need for Sherlock to know more than he needed to.

They passed they rest of the journey in silence, each in his own thoughts - Sherlock on the crime and John on Sherlock.

At last, the hansom cab clattered up a small road just behind the Station. The driver was paid and they both stepped onto the street.

'It is just around the corner,' Sherlock said walking ahead, and indeed, once they came onto the side alley, John saw several members of the Metropolitan Police Force gathered around the entrance to a building.

'Sherlock!' One of the men cried the moment they were noticed. He was gray-haired and important looking, coming forward with what looked to be relief on his face.

'Lestrade,' Sherlock replied by way of greeting. 'What happened?'

'The killer,' Lestrade said. 'He made a mistake.'

'Which is why you called for me to come personally.' Sherlock made his way to the door. 'What is it?'

Lestrade hesitated, a moment lost to neither John nor Sherlock. 'This time,' his words were halting, uncertain. 'It is an automaton.'

John was surprised although a quick glance in Sherlock's direction showed no outward emotion.

'Why?'

'That is the problem,' Lestrade said. 'We have no idea. There are no indications of how he did it either.'

'Is that so?'

'Indeed that is so,' a sharp voice cut into their conversation. Looking to the right, John saw that it was a young woman standing next to the entranceway. She appeared ordinary at first sight, but John saw clearly the unnatural color of her eyes and heard the strange inflection in her voice. She was an automaton without doubt, and she was currently glaring at Sherlock, arms folded in a clearly displeased manner.

'Good afternoon, Sergeant Donovan,' Sherlock replied. There was an edge of condescension in his tone.

'Freak,' she returned, none too politely. 'What are you doing here?'

'Assisting with a case as you can very well see. Or maybe you are unable to draw the necessary conclusions. Those who cannot think for themselves should really leave it to those who can.' It was a not-so-subtle jibe at the fact that she was an automaton.

John thought that Sherlock was being rather unfair. The young woman called Donovan was clearly designed to have above average human intelligence and some measure of free-will. No wonder she was looking at Sherlock with such a hostile expression although in all honesty, she was the one who had started their little disagreement.

There were no more protests, and Sherlock strode into the building quickly. John made to follow him, but was stopped by Lestrade.

'Who is he?' the gray-haired man asked, addressing Sherlock.

'John is with me,' Sherlock replied.

'Yes, but who is he?'

'He is with me,' Sherlock repeated with more emphasis, and Lestrade gave a sigh of defeat before letting him through.

'Top floor,' Lestrade instructed, following them in.

There was a flight of stairs to their right, and the three of them climbed as Lestrade filled Sherlock in on the situation.

'She was found about an hour ago by some kids who were playing in the area. Asked after them a little, but they couldn't have been involved.' Lestrade shook his head. 'Knew nothing about it either, the lot of them, and the entire building was empty too by the time we arrived. No one to interview, unfortunately, but then and again there is no reason for anyone to be around this place. Hardly anything to see or do.'

'And the room she was found in, was there anything?' Sherlock asked.

'It was bare. All the rooms are. The building has been scheduled to be torn down, any tenants have moved out more than a year ago.'

'So there is no conceivable reason for her to be here.'

'None at all,' Lestrade concluded.

They emerged onto a long corridor. Outside the third door down the right, there was a man who appeared to be standing guard, frowning and looking generally displeased with the world. It was towards this room that they walked.

'You.' The man glared upon seeing Sherlock. 'What is _he_ doing here?' he demanded, turning to Lestrade.

'Anderson.' The tone of Lestrade's voice was just very slightly warning.

John realized that this must be the Anderson whom Sherlock had said refused to work with him, and judging by the fierce glare on his face, John thought that Sherlock had probably been putting it rather mildly because that scowl would definitely be interpreted as outright hostility according to all normal standards.

'Nothing he can help with,' Anderson sneered but moved aside all the same. Apparently Lestrade was not one to cross in the Force, and John made a mental note of it.

The assortment of keys hanging from the belt at his waist jangled as Anderson shifted his stance, an obvious indication that this man was a mechanic, but John could easily tell that he was not yet good enough to be a considered a real doctor. Was that why Sherlock had brought John along? Did Sherlock somehow suspect? Did he _know?_

Vaguely unsettled, John entered the room half a step behind Lestrade. Almost at once, he could see what had happened. In the very center of the room the automaton lay face up on the ground, looking for all the world like she was sleeping were it not for the area around her neck which had been smashed in, gears and metal parts bent and jutting out.

'It is similar to the others,' Lestrade said. 'Except that in the past it had always been the throat which was crushed.'

Sherlock gave no indication of having heard, bending instead to more closely examine the metal before moving to her hands.

'The assistant to a Lady from a rich household,' he said.

'How do you know that?' Lestrade sounded surprised, and rightly so. Even John had not been able to gather that much from a mere look.

'The clothes,' Sherlock said impatiently. 'They are of good quality but simple. Plain. This means that her owners are definitely well off. The material is silk, so certainly rich. Now, if she had even some measure of free-will, she might then have chosen something a little more fanciful. The lack of any adornment also suggests that her dressing is decided not by herself but by the people she works for.'

It was an impressive deduction but Lestrade only frowned. 'And that she is an assistant to a Lady - how do you know that?'

'Please do enlighten us,' Anderson agreed sarcastically.

Sherlock gave him a look which clearly suggested exactly what he thought of the intelligence of the people in the room. 'Her hair pin. The only extravagant item on her person,' he said. 'It is most certainly not her own, so it must be a gift of a certain sentimental value. If it were from a friend she would not be wearing it blatantly in the open, as such it must have come from her owner. It is well worn, a cast-off then. Her owner must be a Lady. And since I very much doubt this Lady walks around handing household servants her old items no matter how generous she may be, this automaton must have been close to her owner. A personal assistant then. The ink smudge on the inside of her sleeve also shows that she has had to do much writing, most likely letters on behalf of the Lady.'

He paused and stood up. There was a frown on his face. 'This is wrong,' he said.

'What is?' Lestrade asked quickly.

Sherlock began looking around, searching in her coat pockets and under her collar.

'What are you doing?' Anderson sounded alarmed. 'The evidence-'

'She doesn't have it,' Sherlock snapped, interrupting him. Turning to Anderson, he glared. 'Did anyone take anything from this place?' he demanded.

Anderson visibly shrank but did not back down. 'No. And neither should you.'

Sherlock abruptly stood. 'Leave,' he said without looking back at any of them.

'What?' Anderson sounded indignant.

'_Leave,'_ Sherlock repeated, voice raising. 'All of you.'

The two men on the Force shared a look and as though coming to a silent agreement, they made their way out onto the corridor. John turned to follow but Sherlock stopped him.

'Not you,' he said. Then before John could express his surprise or ask for an explanation, Sherlock beckoned him over. 'What do you think?'

John bent down. Hesitated, then could not stop himself from asking. 'Why are you asking me?'

'Because Anderson is an ineffectual as he is dull,' Sherlock said flatly. 'Now please hurry up.'

Not at all reassured, John turned his attention back to the automaton lying on the floor. 'She has been commissioned for three years at the very least, well taken care of.' Taking a closer look at the broken throat, John frowned. 'The key is not here.'

Sherlock nodded, as though John had just confirmed everything he already knew, which was probably the case. 'How long ago did this happen, would you say?' he asked.

'Anything between 23 to 29 hours.'

'I say 26 from the oxidation of the metal.'

'Possibly,' John agreed. 'So more than a day.'

'Yes.' He paused. 'What else?'

John hesitated. 'The murderer knew what he was doing. She is beyond fixing.'

'Obviously. What else?'

'There are no signs of struggle.'

A sigh. 'What _else?'_

'Well, what are you _looking_ for?' John asked, exasperated.

This time, it was Sherlock who hesitated. 'The identity of her owner,' he said at last. 'The Force did not know to look out for it because they could not observe and deduce. But now it is apparent that she has no sign of ownership. Why?'

His meaning was clear. Wealthy families often put marks upon their automatons, the carving of a name, a crest imprinted on the back of the neck, anything so long as it served the purpose of laying claim to their property, and this automaton clearly lacked such a feature.

'Maybe we are looking in the wrong places,' John suggested, bending to inspect the inside of her wrists.

'Don't bother,' Sherlock said. 'It is her ring.'

'Ring?' There was no ring of any sort on either of her hands.

'The base of her right index finger is worn,' Sherlock explained. 'She wears a ring often and now it is missing, someone took it.'

'The murderer?'

Sherlock shook his head but did not reply. He appeared to be thinking over something so John did not interrupt, remembering Anderson and the harsh responses his opinions had incited. It appeared that Sherlock did not take well to fools, or at least people whose minds did not work was quickly as he did, which was unfortunately the vast majority of the human population and also unfortunately included John Watson. So John stayed very still and very silent, not daring to move lest Sherlock was interrupted as he worked his way through all the information.

Instead he looked at the automaton, observed the blank stare of her glass eyes and wondered what it had must have been like for her world to just suddenly stop. How had it happened? Did she see it coming? John rested a hand lightly against the exposed metal at her throat and wondered if it was worth the risks finding out.

'We should go.' The words cut through the silence suddenly, and John was startled out of his thoughts. Drawing back, he stood and turned to look at Sherlock.

'You figured it out?'

The other man shook his head. 'No. I need more time to think and this is not the best place for it.' He was already making for the door, opening it and interrupting Lestrade and Anderson who appeared deep in conversation.

'Done already, Sherlock?' Lestrade sounded expectant. 'Let's hear it then.'

'Not yet.'

Lestrade's face visibly fell and Anderson looked like he was trying his best to hold back a sharp comment, most likely another insult. Ignoring them both, Sherlock made his way down the stairs, not even looking back to see if John followed.

_Probably doesn't matter to him,_ John thought resentfully, doing his best to catch up.

'When can I expect to hear from you then?' He heard Lestrade shout after them.

'When I figure it out,' Sherlock called back.

It was a vague answer at best and Lestrade clearly thought so if his protests from above were anything to go by. Sparing a moment to pity him, John made to follow Sherlock out of the building. He was stopped by a voice calling his name.

'John. John Watson.' It was Donovan.

Unsure of how to respond, John merely nodded. 'Hello, Miss Donovan.'

'Sally will do,' she said then paused, and John realized that she must have had some reason for stopping him here. He waited.

Shifting a little, she glanced at the door through which Sherlock had just disappeared. 'Do you plan to stay with him?' she asked abruptly.

John blinked. This was not a question he had expected or even really thought about properly. He knew that Sherlock was different, he observed things and knew things which other people did not. This ought of make John at least a little wary, but looking at the questioning, almost a little challenging, gaze of Sally Donovan, he remembered what he had thought when Sherlock had first looked at him.

'For as long as he allows.'

Sally frowned. 'You shouldn't,' she said. 'For your own sake, stay away.' There was clear emphasis in her voice and it seemed as though she was upset about something.

'Why not?' John was more curious than alarmed. It had been clear from their earlier interaction that she was not entirely fond of Sherlock, but to go out of her way to warn him must require a firm conviction of some sort.

'The man has no heart,' she said, her tone making it sound like an accusation.

John took a moment to process that statement. 'I really doubt that,' he said at last. 'Besides, there are many other people who do not have hearts either.' He gave her a pointed look.

Her expression turned defiant. 'That was not what I meant. You have no idea. Sherlock - he really has no heart. If you put your ear to his chest there isn't going to be any heartbeat to hear.'

Now John was confused. So Sally was saying that Sherlock was an automaton? But he had not seemed like one, and John was rarely wrong about these things.

As though anticipating his thoughts, Sally shook her head. 'He is not like us either,' she added. 'He is human in every sense of the word, and that is why you should stay away. Because even in this day and age, a man without a heart is just not _normal.'_

John realized from the conviction in her tone that she was utterly assured of the truth of her words, improbable as they are. But there was no sense to them, none which he could comprehend. He settled for nodding politely.

'Thank you for the concern.'

'You don't believe me,' she said flatly.

He did not deny her words. 'We all have our reasons,' was all he said. Then realizing that Sherlock would leave him behind if he stayed any longer, John turned to walk away. 'Good day, Donovan.'

'Good day.' Her voice was tinged with obvious reluctance and those narrowed eyes watched him all the way out the door.

Sherlock was waiting a little way off, and since his conversation with Sally still weighed upon his mind, John felt more touched than he had any right to be to see the other man standing there looking bored.

'What now?' John asked.

'Now we go home,' Sherlock said.

The inevitable goodbye. John was not entirely surprised. He and Sherlock had only just met after all and the other man was under no obligation to take up Mike Stamford's suggestion of sharing a place together. It might even be for the better, since his earlier conversation with Sally had made John aware that he was becoming unreasonably attached to Sherlock when it was clearly an imprudent, even risky, thing to do.

'Of course,' he said, but was interrupted by Sherlock's next words.

'The address is 221b Baker Street. You might need to know that,' Sherlock added almost as an afterthought.

There was an expectant pause and when nothing but confusion registered on John's face, Sherlock sighed. '_My _address.'

'Oh.'

_Oh._

'That is if you are alright with violin at odd hours of the day and night,' Sherlock continued. 'And long periods of time when I go without saying anything - potential flatmates should always know the worst about it other.'

John knew that he was smiling much too broadly but he could not seem to stop. 'I don't mind,' he said and was pleased when Sherlock smiled tentatively back.

Their hands touched in what was not quite a handshake.

'I will see you with your things later then,' Sherlock said.

'Yes, of course.'

Sherlock nodded and as John watched him walk away, a solitary figure in the evening light, he could not help but think that surely Sally Donovan was wrong because Sherlock was broken and brilliant and beautiful and most definitely not heartless.

For all his faults, John knew with a certainty that surprised even himself that Sherlock was only too human.

* * *

Of course, it was just like Sherlock not to mention the experiments on the kitchen table, the books and papers he kept on every available surface and the fact that he had ensured the execution of the husband of their housekeeper a few years ago. _Landlady, _John mentally corrected, trying to clear enough space on the aforementioned kitchen table for his tea.

Sherlock was currently sprawled across the couch, eyes closed in what might have been mistaken for sleep but was actually deep mental concentration.

'Shut up,' Sherlock said without opening his eyes.

John tried not to sigh. 'I am quite sure I didn't actually say anything this time.'

'You were thinking. It is annoying.' There was a pause. Then, 'Could I have some coffee?'

'The only coffee we have is currently residing at the bottom of a decanter because you decided this morning that it was absolutely essential to test the theory that no, one cannot actually die of boredom watching coffee brew, which I might also add was just an expression and _not _the discovery of a possible device for murder.'

'Well, why say it then? You could have just said watching coffee brew was boring and I would have quite agreed.'

John did not doubt that. Sherlock found most things boring, amongst which included eating and breathing. He returned his attention to his tea and did his very best to ignore the most infuriating person currently occupying the entireties of the couch. The _shared _couch, might he add.

'We need more coffee,' Sherlock added after a while.

When there was no response, he opened his eyes.

'_John... _we need more coffee.'

'The store is just down the road, Sherlock. It won't take five minutes.'

'Six minutes and 27 seconds, actually,' Sherlock corrected. 'And do remember that a good packet of coffee can always be recognized by its position on the shelf, third from the right and usually below the tea.'

There was another silence. Then John sighed again.

'Give me six minutes and 27 seconds then,' he said in a resigned manner, reaching for his coat.

'Take six minutes and 30,' Sherlock said, and closed his eyes again, feeling unusually magnanimous.

A few moments later, the door closed with a little more force than was perhaps necessary.

* * *

'There are a few singularly interesting points about this case,' Sherlock said.

It was evening, and they were sitting next to the hearth at 221B Baker Street, facing each other with a cup of coffee each, intricate lights of wrought iron ivy and glass giving the room a bright glow.

Two days had already passed since they first visited the crime scene and other than the brief demand for coffee on the second day Sherlock had not spoken a word until now. As a matter of fact, he had not even paid the coffee any mind and had hardly moved at all other than sitting up and pacing around the room once about an hour ago before sitting back down on the couch in his current position.

His sudden pronouncement now surprised John. 'Is that so?' he asked, trying not to sound interested.

'Yes. After reviewing all the information, there are a few things which I have come realize particularly stood out about the crime,' Sherlock said and went on before waiting to make sure that John was listening. 'The first is Lestrade's assumption that this killing is exactly like the ones which came before. You would remember he said 'It is similar to the others, except that in the past it had always been the throat which was crushed.' A crucial mistake on his part. Bone is not the same as metal, it will take very different methods to achieve the same effect.'

John looked up. 'So you are suggesting that there are two different murderers?'

'It is probable,' Sherlock said slowly. 'Perhaps the second killer attempted to disguise his actions by imitating the first. But it is only one of the possibilities. The Force has not revealed any information regarding these cases to the public, if this second person knows enough about the first three to attempt a reproduction, then it will have worrying implications for Lestrade and the Force. It is just as probable that the method of killing which the murderer employs is effective for both automatons and humans, an equally unsettling thought, but also a more unlikely one.'

Sherlock was contemplative, and worried that he was going to slip into another long stretch of silence, John hurriedly directed the conversation away from the topic.

'You said there were a few interesting points about the case,' he prompted. 'What are the others?'

'The ring,' Sherlock said. 'You asked if perhaps the murderer took it. He is the only one who could have since had it been some other person who had come across the scene and decided to benefit from the opportunity would have made away with both the hair pin and the ring. As such, circumstantially speaking, the murderer is the most likely person to have done so, but why would he?'

'To obscure the identity of the automaton?'

'But what good would that do? If a household servant went missing a report would definitely be filed. Making away with the ring would only implicate the killer if it were to be located at some point in the future.'

'That sounds fairly straightforward,' John said thoughtfully. 'Why have the Force not located the owner of the automaton then?'

Sherlock frowned. 'This is also the third point about the case which makes no sense. The fact is, no report has been filed as of now. I gave Lestrade two days to come to me with any further information. That he has not only suggests that there has been no more developments.'

There was a moment of silence as the two of them sat in their thoughts, trying to make sense of all that had happened.

'Are your cases always like this?' John asked finally.

'The brilliant ones usually are,' Sherlock said. 'You just have to wait for them to make a mistake.'

'I am not quite sure I like the thought of waiting for a murderous psychopath to strike again in hopes that he would make a mistake,' John replied, taking a sip of his coffee. Sherlock had left his own cup untouched again, he noted.

'There is something,' Sherlock said, sounding frustrated. 'Something I missed which would explain all of these anomalies. Something so obvious it is staring me in my face. Something in a comment of yours.'

John looked up, surprised. 'Which one?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I cannot remember now.' He sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes closing again in thought. 'We will go and take another look at the automaton tomorrow. There might be something left unnoticed, although I really doubt that.'

'Of course,' John nodded. He watched Sherlock a moment longer and silently came to a decision. He will do what he can to help with this case, no matter the risks he has to take. And he knew there were going to be risks.

Great ones.

* * *

**A/N: And there is the first chapter. I hope you liked it. Please tell me what you think. Should there be any errors in writing, just drop me a line and it shall be corrected as soon as possible.**


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